


Behaviorism

by bible



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Cannibalism, Episode: s02e10 Naka-Choko, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Psychoanalysis, Rimming, Will is becoming Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 14:32:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12434787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bible/pseuds/bible
Summary: "Stay with me.""Where else would I go?"Will stays the night with Hannibal after killing Randall. Hannibal eats Will, in a sense.





	Behaviorism

            Small things in Will’s life shiver under the immensity of Hannibal’s presence. It’s been this way for a long time now. Watching the window where a late snowfall peppers the glass with icy pockmarks, he often visualizes Hannibal in the far-off streetlight’s glow. Silhouetted and faceless under a flickering spotlight of yellow, it is undeniably Hannibal.

            The antlers are usually a giveaway.

            Sometimes he’ll traverse to the market. It’s not a fine market; no butcher-shop, no fresh, farm-raised vegetables. In the summer there is a variety of colorful globes of tomatoes, plenty of peaches that ooze freshness, but in the cold winters there are only fish. He passes these tanks with their catches and sees himself in the reflection of the silver scales that shimmer in the cramped cubes. The rotting smell reminds him of flesh. Not the flesh Hannibal sets in front of him. Sculptures of bodies upon the beach. Bodies cast beneath honeycombs. The flesh Hannibal sets in front of him smells wonderful.

            Will’s stomach doesn’t knot up anymore. He enjoys meals.

            In the market he buys fish and some of the shipped-in vegetables that Hannibal detests. He buys cans of chowder and milk and eggs. He buys a loaf of bread. Simple, small things. All tiny and ugly and brown in his home. Hannibal’s food is always lit by candle, and the flickering sundown shine turns every creation—girl kidneys, uncouth garbagemen tongues—into a work of art.

            Will sits at his counter with his eggs and toast and feeds half of it to his dog, disgusted at his own weak, childish menu. He wipes his mouth of yolk, and it connects to his wrist, and he finds it looks like a long line of pathetic, jaundiced drool.

            It is certainly no roast pig.

* * *

 

            Hannibal is washing Will’s hands now. He wraps them in gauze with the gentle adoration of a narcissist admiring a depiction of himself, cast in marble. His thumb traces the valleys of the knuckles, and Hannibal’s catlike smile drops. For the scrutinizing maroon eye does not miss the blood speckling the curls of his hair.

            “Will,” Hannibal says, placing a devastatingly warm hand on the back of his skull, and Will does not flinch, “You’re carrying evidence.”

            “I hardly concealed the _body_ , Doctor. Why would I conceal my hair?”

            “Hardened blood in the hair follicles could cause balding.”

            Will puts a hand in his mop of dark hair, the bandages scraping against the scalp. In the mirror he sets his eyes on Hannibal’s, who is deliriously close, deliriously immense in his peripheral, his warmth and power seeping into the pores of Will’s skin. When they meet eyes, Will nods and drops his hand. “Certainly. I don’t want to end up with a hairline like yours.”

            Hannibal’s mouth creeps into a red-rimmed smile. A joke here, a simper there—it’s never rude. Not when Will says it.

            Hannibal leads him to the tub and fills it with water. The surface of the water in the Cassiterite tub looks like the midnight sky. Will cannot see his reflection. Hannibal twists the faucets and the water stills, hot and black as a cave. Will looks at him, waiting for him to leave. Cocks a brow when he makes no move to leave.

            “You cannot see the back of your own head, Will.”

            Will does not feel vulnerable in the presence of Hannibal anymore. He’s stripped his head, and so Will has stripped his. What’s the body have to do with anything? It’s not like there’s any further violation they could cross.

            Silly Will.

            He steps out of his dark clothes and sinks into the bath. His body is pallid and coiled and full of potential energy. His cock is soft and handsome between his legs. Sweat covers him and makes him pungent but Hannibal isn’t entirely unused to finding Will so aromatic. It almost pleases him, in a way. It isn’t as much odor as it is pheromones.

            The tiles of the wall are dark and smooth and when Will rests his forehead against them he finds himself at a sudden reprieve from the overwhelming heat Hannibal’s hands administers against his back, his neck, his scalp. The bath is softly steaming and he feels feverish and ill.

            Nothing new in the office of Hannibal Lecter.

            Hannibal’s nails scratch gently at the bulbs of dried blood that cling to his hair. Finally, Will sinks in the tub, his tense shoulders loosening, and he lets a breath between his cold, chapped lips. Will brings a wet hand to his own lips and rests it there. He remembers a strange childhood memory of something vampiric, of drinking the bathwater off his skin, leaving red welts over his arms. He’d suck so hard his milkteeth broke the skin. Now, Will’s warm tongue protrudes over his freezing lips and he’s licking the bathwater off and nursing his skin. In the dark-lit bathroom with Hannibal behind him, carefully plucking through his feathery, soft hair, sucking his own flesh, he feels as though he’s in utero. He feels as though Hannibal is his father.

            He finds himself a genetic product of this man.

            Will’s vision goes dark as he slips into some quiet, nebulous warmth where his nightmares are banished, and he dozes for a while. His chest, toned and scratched, rises and falls slow as a feline’s. Hannibal watches him sleep, curled tight in a ball in the tub. Hannibal’s sprinkled in bath salts, oils of flowering tobacco. Changed his smell to remove the _Outside_. The _Outside_ , where other awful things infect him.

 _Outside_ : where things other than Hannibal infect him.

Will seems like some transient embryo. _Rebirth_ —they’ve talked about this recently.

            Finished with scrubbing the no-longer-impure flesh of Will’s scalp, Hannibal digs a nail in. He uproots some of Will’s own skin, a fresh knob that now bleeds his own blood. Hannibal pulls his finger from the mess of curls on his head and studies the small flake of fresh, living flesh. A piece of Will, a little chunk—just small enough. It balances on his fingertip.

            And Hannibal tucks it into his mouth.

* * *

 

            In the dragon’s den, he’s curled on the bed, peering at Hannibal from between his slit eyelids, brows hitched and lips parted. He has the sheets pulled up to his chin. The room comes into focus—the early baroque interior, the little palace in a nook of Baltimore. Will’s dark pupils travel away from Hannibal’s face for a while before falling on him again.

            The sallow, drawn face of Hannibal Lecter is undeniably reminiscent of Death. As if the skin, the suit of his Outside is being usurped by the hollow, barely-human man Inside. The skull pressing on his face, desperate to remove itself from this high-end elite face he wears.

            Will can’t imagine Hannibal is as smug and at peace and complacent with the material as he pretends to be. He sits up on an elbow. Hannibal radiates heat. Even if not temperature-wise, his physical force is overbearing and Will is drawn to the radiator. Climbing up the mattress, he realizes now, as the sheets slide off his skin, that he is still naked.

            “I fell asleep?” he says, sitting back on his calves, hands resting on his thighs. Like some diminished, shy schoolboy, his eyes shadowed and brows hitched and cock there, between his legs, there, and the taste of his skin is still in Hannibal’s mouth.

            “I’m afraid you did.”

            “I’m sorry,” Will rubs his eyes, “Were any of your patients…?”

            “No,” Will closes a leather-bound notebook, and sets it aside beneath the lamplight, turned low and gauzy. It casts Hannibal’s face in amber. “It’s three in the morning, Will.”

            “I’ve kept you up, watching over me.”

            “Yes,” Hannibal admits, “But I suppose, given your nightmares, it’s a justified retribution.”

            Will cracks a weak but courteous smile at that. He continues kneeling on the mattress, naked and handsome and exhausted.

            But inviolable.

            “I’m tired,” Will says, voice hoarse as a shivering, dried petal. Hannibal could drop that voice into boiling water and produce a vivid tea.

            “You’re welcome to stay the night. I can’t imagine driving back to Wolf Trap at this hour would be at all healthy. And, I am responsible for your health, after all. Carrying that body all the way back—you do intend to keep it, don’t you?”

            “Yes. It’s _my_ reward. It’s _my_ trophy.”

            “Stay the night—your circumstances render this impractical.”

            “Are you preparing to issue a three-in-the-morning therapy session?”

            And now Will does something that lodges a cork, hard and unmoving, in Hannibal’s throat. Will reclines on his elbow, laying on his side, like _the Venus of Urbino_. His hair, newly washed and smelling of a fine, _vanille_ shampoo, is tossed over his forehead. His sinewy but powerful arm rests on his strong, muscled thigh. Hannibal wonders if he was often proposed as a model as a child, but remembers Will’s subdued nature, his Asperger’s rendering him unsociable and—to this day—mildly misanthropic.

            Not to Hannibal, though.

            “No,” he whispers, “You should only sleep.”

            Hannibal rises from his place in his chair and cups Will’s face, and Will suddenly feels his immensity very overwhelmingly again. He stands up from the bed to try and get some leverage before he realizes he’s dwarfed by Hannibal’s height. And for no good reason at all, Hannibal standing there, breathing warmly, his eyes cast on his face, compels Will to hide his own face in the searing and dark crevice of Hannibal’s neck.

            He stays there, engulfed by his smell and heat and his mind goes heady and warm and swimming as he absorbs more of Hannibal’s essence. As he becomes malleable to Hannibal’s hands.

            Hannibal puts an arm around him and holds him. The muscles of Will’s back outlined by the light, stroked as if by a paintbrush.

            Hannibal closes his eyes as he holds Will, his cheekbone pressed into the temple of Will’s head, and he mumbles with vino-maroon lips against the lobe of his ear, those ears he loves so much, “I ate a part of you today.”

            Will reluctantly, and with exertion, lifts his face from the confines of Hannibal’s neck, “What part of me?”

            “A piece of your scalp.”

            Will’s eyebrows hitch and he shakes his head minutely, “I can’t imagine it tasted that good.”

            “There are parts of you I muse taste better.”

* * *

 

            Will knows it’s happening and he knows how it happened, and he’s here in the bed on his front, his chest to the sheets that are wrinkled and half-kicked from the bed. Improper and wild and sweat-soaked, just like the men on top of them.

            Will’s face is burning and his eyes are squeezed shut as Hannibal works behind him.

            His psychiatrist’s tongue seeks the hole between his cheeks and laps there, making Will emit a strangled groan between his teeth, feet kicking at Hannibal’s thighs.

            “Will,” he admonishes, wrapping a strong, capable, violent hand around the base of his cock, “Be good, now.”

            Will’s teeth grind—audible as construction slabs rubbed together. Hannibal climbs over him, his heavy, clothed chest pressing between his shoulder blades, and he grips his cheeks, stilling him. “Will. Relax. I promise not to use any teeth.”

            As he chuckles against his ear Will lets himself smile a little, but his toes curl nonetheless as Hannibal drags his sharp, carnivorous teeth down his back, nipping at him curiously. When he goes back to his ass, parting him with the punishing and possessive grip of a warden, he presses his tongue to his hole again. He eats him out as Will intermittently gasps and clings and tenses, foot curling and face buried in the pillow. He doesn’t want to see himself, eyes clenched shut.

            Ravenous. Hannibal’s licking him and kissing him and pressing against him with uncharacteristically, animalistic _eating_. Will feels himself twitch against his face, feels his cock bob, feels himself curl his fingers—his claws—in the sheets. Feels himself go primordial and Hannibal too. He’s sure he looks like an animal behind him. The sounds he’s making: wet and slurping and gasping and _Will_ in between. But there’s composure in it. His wilderness is always composed. Hannibal’s a harmonic thing that way.

            Hannibal eats so neatly. Cutting with his knife and fork, elbows never resting on the table, his back straight, his careful, quick, clean swallows, his fluttered-shut eyes after food. He savors every bite and _imbibes_ his power. He likes to luxuriate the impact he’s had on the world.

            Now, Will knows there’s nothing cannibalistic happening behind him. But sex, like eating, is a chemical pleasure. Is he simply just deconstructed around him?

            “Stop psychoanalyzing me,” Hannibal mumbles, noting how Will has gone still and his face has smoothed over. “My ferocity is simple out of fervor.”

            Will hates how similar their thinking has gotten. He’s hard, he’s red in the cheeks, and sweat trickles down his spine with shivering dollops. But he maintains a stillness of voice that’s surprising even to him.

            “You’re not—in fervor when you—eat?”

            Hannibal presses a kiss to his left asscheek, rubbing his face there and Will feels a hot flush of embarrassment at the gesture. “Do you expect me to have sex the way I eat food? I mimic my meals, Will. When plated and seasoned and cooked and still, I will eat the way the dish is prepared. You,” he drags his crooked row of top teeth upon his ass, “are raw, whimpering, kicking, wild.”

            “You make me sound like a pig,” Will murmurs.

            “Yes. Well.”

            Hannibal resumes, Will self-conscious but unfailing pleasured, his hand around his own dick as he strokes himself until Hannibal bats his hand away and does it for him. When he comes under these ministrations, under Hannibal’s warm, slippery, wet tongue, he feels the same way he does when he’s eaten: taken care of by his psychiatrist, and unimaginably guilty. The rules of ethics ring dimly somewhere far away from the Lecter household, where Will has collapsed, and where his soft cock that Hannibal pets, slides through a puddle of cum in the sheets.

**Author's Note:**

> Support me/make a request: ko-fi.com/bibles


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